“Excuse me!” I wave a twenty-dollar bill in the air. I may be single and here with my drunk friend who is spewing ex-boyfriend-related vitriol, but at least I’ve got the money to do it. I work for one of the biggest biotech conglomerates in the world, although unfortunately, being the executive assistant of Harley Royce is basically being a glorified secretary to the world’s biggest douchebag. Let’s be honest—in the corporate world, “billionaire” equals “bastard.” The money’s great, but the work sucks. I’m surprised I’m not a bigger drinker after all. “Hey!” I yell out again, but no dice. This is what I get for wearing work gear to the bar—what twenty-two-year-old do you know decides to rock a black blazer to happy hour? I feel like my mother. Or my grandmother. Or both. “Let me see if I can help.” I turn at the sound of the voice but, when our eyes meet, I’m rendered momentarily stunned. Like elephant-dart-to-the-brain stunned. Hello, gorgeous. The beefcake bartenders—sure, they’re hot in a conventional, Magic Mike sort of way. But this guy? He’s hot-hot. Universally hot. Ryan Gosling hot. He’s wearing a dark suit—well-cut, grey wool, probably designer—and his dark-brown hair is neatly cropped, but he’s got a day or so of sexy scruff along his jawline. He looks like he just came in from a board meeting, but that he could have been rebuilding a carburetor yesterday. Put him in coveralls and he’d be your mechanic. (Your sexy as hell mechanic who you’d want bending you over the hood of your car after he changed the oil…) “Yo, Bradshaw!” He calls out at one bartender who’s leaning halfway over the bar with his face an inch away from being buried in a blonde girl’s cleavage. Bradshaw’s head pops up, one eyebrow raised. “Landon—dude. Sorry, I didn’t see you there.” He sidles down to our end of the bar. “What can I get you?” Landon gestures to me. “Ladies first.” I blink at him. The words won’t come. My mouth and lips feel parched and unable to ask for the one thing they want—a drink. Or Landon’s tongue in my mouth. Whichever comes first. “Hmm.” He presses his index finger to his lips—his full, gorgeous, sensual lips. “You look like a martini drinker.” Honestly, I’m not—martinis are more of my boss’s kind of cocktail—something with one hundred dollars’ worth of vodka and at least a dozen olives. “Dirty?” My eyes fly back up to his and his dark brow is cocked. “Excuse me?” I manage to say. It’s more like a squeak. “Dirty?” he repeats. “A dirty martini?” Oh. Because that was totally what I was thinking when he said that word. Sure.

“Um, yes. Please. Thank you.”

Author Bio

Julia Swift is a New York native who loves sizzling, suspenseful stories and dangerously sexy men. She's turned her love for reading into a new career as an author and insomniac. You can find her writing in her local Starbucks with an iced coffee and an ear for gossip!